If our story could be written out, your name would undoubtfully be in the title of mine and if I'm lucky, maybe I'd be a single chapter of yours.
You are the catalyst for the shipwreak in my heart, the reason why I still run track, and keep me wondering about all the possibilities we missed. The climax, and the cause of conflict. To you, I was probably a game. On the off chance I wasn't, I was just a fling. It's such a shame to me our stories don't line up, but that wasn't all my choice. You stole the spotlight in mine and I know you don't plan on giving it back. Sad thing is, I don't think I could take it back from you. Despite the fact you don't deserve it, you seem to be the protangonist in your story, and in mine.
I am but a mere word in your story,
never to be seen again.
But you filled up chapters of my book,
my life now summed up by before and after.
Before I met you; after you left.
Everything in between just a blurry mess of
secrets and lies, heartbreak and love.
You meant everything to me...
but I meant nothing to you.
Wordy Word Ms.
“You are one word in my story. While I am the plot twist in yours”
How often does “this plot” invade your state of wonderment. For better or worse? Under your breath a mess of curses and or blessings past lessons tell me. Passed your lips. Unbeknownst to me till now so you think.
Currently just how many witches and or their voodoo doll caressing spell projecting Doctors. Where pushed by you to and over the brink. And now think and speak not well. But Ill of me.
Or have I you to thank for the hypothetical peanut gallery following with applause for me. If need be. Wanking me up inflating me. Into over evaluations of me as is the case for many third world currencies. And so as such my ego surely bound to burst its bubble.
Double troubled by speculation. Humbled fumbling thru this investigation. Inciting this derelict’s Impromptu dissertation.
“Oh Lucy! You have some splaining to do”
Don’t you? If Tit for Tat/L7 square fair this pair wish to remain in fact.
Surely you have no trouble expecting me. One who’s never neglecting a pens caressing. To not hesitate and waste much ink and no time in replying.
What one word are you implying? Miss Plot exemplifying defines who? In this screw turning. At least I’m enduring it favorably. And with a passion.
Unspoken coaxed. Stoked and soaking it in. Are you basking in all you’ve taxed of me? Sans asking thee. These answer’s I’ve come up with to tackle the aim of your brevity?
Never wishing yours truly miss hearing. The mortal lip service you let loose with into a dueling. I won’t stop immersing myself in your lyrical versing’s of perversion, unnerving and otherwise found if preferred. Or think to speak for you unless beguiled by some ghost that boasts of you.
So please excuse me now. As I do return with word of heaven your grace. First and foremost among hostesses.
For authoritative word on the subject of loveliest, lustiest, looniest, literarily invariably you are the last.
On a starry lit night, when the neighborhood lights blacked out, the moon lit my path home. The walls chilled my face, fresh with dew.
Laughter lulled me away from the shadows. A lady rushed past me, racing home against her feline companion. The wind blew her honeyed perfume towards me. A person reeking of death. A button dropped.
The button was an intricate bee sleeping within vines and acorns. I never saw the ladys face. To me she is a fairy spreading joy, skipping about without a care for her step. In that moment, I wondered, how many joyful moments have I denied myself by worrying. How much joy is there to revel in life not caring if its seen. From then on, I've been skipping through the darkness, reveling in the star lit moments. I raise my face to the wind, accepting the fresh cold air, warm brown eyes open, no longer empty.